Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1

by GJ Fortier

  Rob ignored her. “I gotta go.” He paused long enough to make eye contact. “Take care of yourself, June.”

  “Wait!” June said as she tried unsuccessfully to stand. “How will I find you?”

  Without turning back he shouted, “I’ll find you.”

  With that, he removed the wheel blocks and climbed into the cockpit. Looking back at June, who had managed to regain her balance and was standing beside the plane, he wondered briefly if he would actually ever see her again.

  As the engine roared to life, June thought about waving but decided against it as Rob taxied out of the hanger. It was then that she first noticed the flashing blue lights of the police cars through the window, the sound of their sirens getting closer and closer. A wave of regret and fear washed over her. She looked at the bloody, powdery mess that was Covington. Seeing he hadn’t moved, she relaxed and began to wonder again about the fate of the others. How were her babies? And how about Professor Yeoum, Don, Jimmy, Tiong, and even Greg Mathers. They were her only friends, the only people besides her parents she really cared about. She looked back at the plane that continued toward the runway. No, they are not my only friends.

  She thought about Commander Rob Tyler. In some ways, she felt even closer to him. He seemed more like family. Her emotions welled up within and she felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched him maneuver the plane onto the taxiway. She wanted desperately to go with him, but the pain in her arm and another wave of nausea wouldn’t allow her to move. What's going to happen to him? Will they hunt him down? Will they kill him? “Please take care of him, God,” she prayed.

  With her arm throbbing, she glanced over at the blue lights flashing through the trees and then back at the plane. She leaned against the hangar and slid down to a sitting position. Feeling queasy with her strength waning, she glanced lazily over at the patrol cars as they emerged onto the tarmac, their lights flashing and sirens blaring. She smiled weakly and closed her eyes. “I think I’m just gonna let you guys come and find me.”

  * * * * *

  THROUGH THE STARBOARD windows, Rob saw the headlights of the police cars closing in behind him. They were passing the hangers and fanning out in pursuit. He gunned the plane down the taxiway towards the runway and turned to the north so violently that the plane’s starboard wingtip nearly hit the concrete. He straightened the plane out and when the port wheels touched down again he realized that he had left himself less than a third of the runway.

  “Lord, please don’t let me fowl up!”

  As he checked his speed—fifty knots, fifty-five, sixty—he started to believe that the old Beaver still had the guts to get him into the air, even in the shortened distance.

  “C'mon! You can do it, baby!”

  Sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five …

  He could see the plane’s shadow from the patrol car’s headlights cast on the trees that towered above directly in his path. Looking to his left and right, he saw the deputies maneuvering around the plane in an attempt to block him. Turning his attention back to the fast-approaching trees, he prayed, “Please, Lord! Please don't let me kill me!”

  Using his remaining strength and fighting through the pain in his chest, he yanked on the yoke so hard that he feared it might snap off. To his astonishment the plane lifted easily off the ground and began a rapid climb. By a much too narrow margin, the plane cleared the treetops and he banked port, descending to an altitude of fifty feet just as soon as the terrain would allow on a heading that would take him toward the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Now, let’s just pray they don’t have anything to follow me with.”

  * * * * *

  JUNE WATCHED THE PLANE disappear behind the trees. Closing her eyes tightly, she prayed it wouldn’t crash. When she opened them again, she saw three of the patrol cars racing in her direction. The first one stopped next to the Mercury, but the other two slid to a screeching halt next to the Torino. As the deputies climbed out, they didn’t immediately notice June where she was sitting next to the hangar.

  With her remaining strength, she shouted. “Hey! I'm over here.”

  The deputies trotted over with guns drawn. “Let me see your hands!” one shouted.

  She tried to lift them, but the pain and weakness had her too close to passing out. She dropped them to her lap instead. Seeing she was injured, the closest deputy asked, “Are you alright, Miss? What in blazes is goin’ on here?”

  June was fading fast and didn't hear the question. Groggily, she mumbled just loud enough for them to hear. “My name is Doctor June Phillips and I have information concerning the murder of a captain in the United States Navy.”

  31 A Prayer for the Helpless

  04 August 2010

  THE SENATORS WERE having a very bad day. Kingsley and Kitchens sat at the table in a private dining room of the Sou'Wester restaurant at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Washington D.C. They finished what they could of their lunch. Their more-than-efficient waitress had cleared the dishes away and they found themselves staring at one another in utter silence. The project that was so important to them, each for their own very different reasons, had fallen apart and lay before them like the carcasses of the animals that died to provide their meal. A mere three days ago they were receiving very favorable reports from Professor Yeoum concerning the experiment. Success seemed assured and they were preparing to celebrate.

  That is, until the inconceivable had happened.

  An agent or agents of some unknown entity had compromised the project. There were seven dead, including an NCIS agent and Captain Benny Walsh. Professor Yeoum, Doctor Tiong, Doctor Phillips, the clone, and Security Chief Sergeant Covington were all missing. The CIA, the Air Force, the Navy, the FBI, and local civilian authorities in Georgia were conducting investigations.

  “So much for my new medical research complex,” Kitchens sighed, breaking the silence.

  “So much for our careers. Kingsley shot back with a disgusted look. “Seriously, what are you more concerned about, your community or your job and reputation?”

  “I think those two go together.” Kitchens glared across the table. “I got suckered into all this for the good it would do for my community, my state. You told me it'd bring seventeen hundred new jobs to middle Georgia. And you assured me that everything was under control.”

  “I assured you?” she scoffed. “No, Professor Yeoum assured us both that everything was on track. Not me.”

  “Lower your voice,” Kitchens whispered. “Reporters eat here too. And can we please stay on topic?”

  “Well, aren’t you just the quintessential man of noble character? Such concern for your community’s well being and being diligent in keeping me safe from prying eyes, all at the same time,” she spoke through clinched teeth.

  “Do we really have time for this?”

  Ignoring the question, she continued to rant. “That’s all I need. Some so-called journalist to get a whiff of this and start digging around.”

  “Margaret!”

  She gave him a scornful look. “I was making my bones here in D.C. when you were making mud pies in your sand box! Don’t presume to warn me about my town, Mister Junior Senator! And just what topic is it that you’d like to stay on, Kevin?”

  Kitchens remained silent. He was the one who had strayed away from the main point of their discussion.

  Kingsley took a sip from her glass of water. She was beginning to regret the fact that she’d chosen to forgo her favorite wine. “Seven people are dead. And we, that is you and I, are ultimately responsible.”

  “No. You are ultimately responsible. I'm just a junior senator from the state where you wanted to conduct this … this—”

  “Would you please shut your backwoods-hick, kudzu-chewin’, Georgia good-ole-boy mouth and let me think for a minute?”

  Kitchens fell silent for several more minutes. As Kingsley contemplated her next move, he had time to regret the fear that he had revealed to her by trying
to shift the blame her way.

  When Kingsley spoke again, she did so matter-of-factly. “We need to keep Perez on a very short leash. Both him and Talbot.”

  “Jim Talbot is Stillman’s eyes and ears. As long as he’s involved, she’s involved. And she don’t like gettin’ her toes stepped on.”

  “Well, then. We’ll just have to make sure she understands the gravity of the situation. After all, this whole thing took place on her base. She needs to make sure she keeps her mouth shut too, or she could find herself in the middle of a career-ending controversy.”

  Kitchens smiled. “Absolutely. As for Talbot, he and his people are, for the time being at least, reporting to Perez. And Perez is reporting directly to me. As of now, you and I have direct control of the investigation.”

  Kingsley scoffed again. “You mean other than the CIA, the FBI, the JAG office, and the locals.”

  “They’re not getting anything we don’t want them to get. Perez understands what we want, I can guarantee you that.”

  “What about the homeowner who was shot? Is he alright?” Kingsley asked, not sure what condition she would prefer him to be in.

  “He’s in stable condition at the hospital. The local sheriff and police chief have been sniffing around, but they won’t get anything from him.”

  Kingsley gave the younger man a doubtful look, but decided to remain silent about his assumption.

  “Our biggest problems are Phillips, the clone, Yeoum and Tiong. I think it’s safe to assume that Phillips is with the clone and that the professor and Tiong are together. The question is where they are.”

  “Really? You figured that out all by yourself?” Kingsley wasn’t concerned about Tiong. If he and the professor were together, they would be found in short order. What their condition would be when they were found, she couldn’t guess. What perplexed her was where June had taken the clone and why. From everything Yeoum had told her, the clone would have little or no cognitive abilities. Its mind would be a complete blank except, perhaps, for some of Rob’s more recent memories. What was she doing? She looked at Kitchens. “What’s Perez had to say about the mole? Who does he suspect?”

  “His working theory is either Covington or Doctor Phillips,” answered Kitchens.

  “That’s a pretty short list, considering how many people are involved.”

  “My money’s on Phillips. I never liked having an activist involved in this.”

  Was the ethologist tree hugger in on it? Did she team up with her environmentalist friends to make some political statement about saving the animals? “Why not the professor?” Kingsley asked. “Maybe he’s gotten homesick.”

  “All Yeoum cares about is his research. He’d never do anything to jeopardize his work.”

  Kingsley took another sip from her glass. “My father always told me that in any mystery, it was either the most likely or the least likely suspect. My money is on Covington or one of the other security guards.”

  “Why not Tiong?” Kitchens asked.

  “How is Perez going to proceed?” she asked, ignoring his question. Kitchens narrowed his eyes and was about to ask again when his cell phone rang.

  Kingsley watched as he answered and listened intently, trying to hear the voice on the other end.

  “That’s great news Eddie! Great news! Any leads on Mather’s car?”

  “What?” Kingsley asked, anxious to hear something positive.

  “What about the”—he caught himself before he said the word—“Mister Tyler?” He listened, and then continued speaking into the receiver. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

  “What’s happened?” Kingsley asked.

  “Bennett managed to get into his computer files,” Kitchens reported. “He had the security footage backed up. As it turns out, only the tunnels got flooded. Air pressure inside kept the water out of the labs, but they still haven’t learned much more than what we knew before. They need to get inside. They think that the south tunnel can be pumped out by the end of the week, giving them access.”

  “The end of the week? Why so long?”

  “Well, there’s over fifty million gallons of water in there, and that’s just the south tunnel. Double that for both tunnels. Shoot, when they were flooded the river practically dried up.”

  Kingsley sat back and rolled her eyes. “Another very public event that will need an explanation,” she moaned.

  Kitchens smiled. “That one’s already covered. The USGS recorded a quote seismic event unquote, and has already explained it away as a sink hole.”

  “Well, thank God for small favors.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “Was there something about Mathers’ car?”

  “Yes. The police found it at a truck stop in Tifton, Georgia. A man and a woman were seen driving away from there in a stolen car on Monday afternoon.”

  “Where’s Tifton?”

  “It’s about an hour south of the base.”

  “So, they’re heading south? What on earth is that woman up to?”

  “We're about to find out,” Kitchens said. “Eddie and his team are on their way to Apalachicola, Florida.”

  “They found Phillips?” Kingsley asked hopefully.

  “She turned herself in to the local sheriff last night.”

  “And the”—she caught herself—“Tyler?”

  “All Perez said was that he isn’t with her.”

  She rolled her eyes again and her shoulders slumped. “Wonderful. Just when I thought our luck was changing.”

  Kitchens had to suppress another smile. Even under these circumstances, he was enjoying watching the woman squirm. “Paramount to our concerns is that we keep the president outside of this.”

  “The president isn’t in this,” she reminded him.

  “Doesn’t matter. If he gets connected to it now …” He let the sentence trail off, its implication plain.

  “Well, we may have to dangle one of the joint chiefs, probably Piedmont of the Air Force,” Kingsley said, hardly believing the words had actually escaped her lips. She was in uncharted territory now. It was self-preservation at any cost. She cradled her forehead in her hand. “And Tyler is still in a coma?”

  “Yes, as of an hour ago.”

  She lowered her voice further. “And the major is positive that they have the real Robert Tyler there in the hospital?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How can they be sure if he’s in a coma?”

  “I’m no doctor. He says there’s physical evidence, something about scarring. I’ll take his word.”

  Kingsley glared at Kitchens. “You tell Mathers I want proof positive.”

  “Unfortunately, until he does wake up, we have to go with what we have.”

  “So, are we seriously proceeding under the assumption that the clone is on the run?”

  “Until it’s found, that's the game plan.”

  She shook her head. “It would be impossible to make this up.” She thought a moment. “Maybe that’s the one thing that we can use to our advantage.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The fact that nobody will believe it.”

  Kitchens paused for a moment. “Maybe it’s dead.”

  “We should be so lucky.” She shook her head. “Like you said, we have to proceed under the assumption that the clone is out there, somewhere. But make no mistake, Kevin. We have got to tie this off.”

  Kitchens laughed, drawing a penetrating stare from the senior senator. “We can't tie it off. It's gone too far. There are too many people … too many agencies involved. I told you to let the Air Force handle it. But no, you catered to Walsh and got NCIS involved, and look what it's gotten us.”

  Kingsley continued to stare, but she knew he was right. In her zeal to get to the finished product, she had gotten sloppy. “Haste makes waste,” she said under her breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Something else my father used to say. Haste makes waste.”

  “Sounds like a wise man.” His co
mment was laced with sarcasm.

  Ignoring his attitude, she smiled at the memory. “He was.”

  “Are you planning to go down there?”

  Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “To Georgia? Are you out of your mind? I ain’t goin’ south of the Mason-Dixon till this mess gets straightened out,” she said, butchering his accent in an attempt to mock him.

  Kitchens smiled and nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Well, maybe it's time I did.”

  Kingsley’s ears perked up. “What are you talking about?”

  Kitchens simply smiled silently.

  “Do you see an opportunity here, Kevin? What did you have in mind?

  “Well, it is my ole stompin' grounds. If I go back home, nobody will suspect a thing. And I might be able to … expedite things.”

  “What will you tell Perez?”

  He displayed a politician’s smile. “I'll tell him he's doin' an outstandin' job, and that we're gonna make any and all resources available to him. And I’ll tell him to keep up the good work.”  He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “Margaret, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm an up-and-comer. I need to make my bones. And from some friends here in D.C. I know you picked me for that very reason. That, and because a rookie senator from the south is easy to discredit in some”—he picked up his nearly empty glass and took a sip—“unsightly scandal.”

  Kingsley wondered at the man’s sudden boldness, a quality she had thought he sorely lacked.

  “You're a very powerful woman, Misses Kingsley,” Kitchens continued. “You have a mountain of important tasks on your plate. Let me take care of this bit of unpleasantness for you.”

  “And I can, at some future date, take care of some things for you, in a like manner that you handle this one?”

  Kitchens made note of the implication. “Nothing as messy as the current situation, I can assure you.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. “Are you sure you're not getting in over your head?”

  He sat back and grinned. “Ma'am, we have a way of doin' things in the south. I'm sure you can appreciate that. You’d be better off not knowing all the details, though.”